


Snare

by sciencefictioness



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Brief Implications of Past Non-con, I see your pining Jesse and raise you pining Reyes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Under the shock, the heart fluttering adrenaline of surprise, Gabriel was angry.Because someone, somewhere, had instilled this in Jesse.  Twisted his survival instincts.  Beaten him down, through force or threats or manipulation, until he would rather kneel than face whatever consequences waited for him on the other side of disobedience.Jesse McCree was a force of nature.Wild.  Devastating.  Unstoppable.He did not belong on his knees, bent to someone else’s will.Not like this.





	Snare

He felt like a child playing dress up.  A little boy in his grandaddy’s old uniform, toy gun in his hand and dirt on his face, making noises with every useless pull of the trigger.

 

The clothes they gave him didn’t fit right, not really.  He was tall but lanky, years of living on the edge of starvation making him lean where he shouldn’t be.  A few more months of steady meals would have him bulked up, or so his superiors told him, but until then they would have to make do.  So his training gear was baggy, his sweatpants too big, the drawstrings on them pulled tight to make up for the loose fabric.  

 

It wasn’t really the clothes that made him feel small and shrinking and pathetic, though, not right then.

 

It was the expression on Reyes’ face, eyes narrow and mouth set in an unhappy line, palms on his thighs as he leaned back in his chair and looked Jesse up and down.  

 

He’d fucked up.

 

He knew he’d fucked up.  Knew it as it was happening, a sinking feeling in his guts, but couldn’t make it stop.  Like falling in slow motion, aware but unable to right himself.  All he could do was brace for impact, and hope he didn’t land wrong.  It wasn’t entirely his fault.  

 

The survival instincts drilled into him by Deadlock didn’t always carry over well.  Too much aggression, too little caution, no situational awareness of the others on his team.

 

Jesse was a better marksman than anyone on site, but he was still a dead man at the end of every training exercise, a little red ‘X’ over his face on Athena’s screen when they analyzed their performance.  

 

This time he’d managed to take his whole squad down with him, defying Reyes’ orders in his ear to try and accomplish the objective at any cost.  Commander Morrison, in one of his recent evaluations, said Jesse needed to learn when to cut his losses and retreat.

 

Reyes told him he wouldn’t have to retreat at all if only he’d get his head out of his ass.

 

Now Jesse was standing in Reyes sleeping quarters, trying not to drop his eyes as Reyes stared, and stared, and stared.  

 

Like if he glared at Jesse hard enough, he’d be able to puzzle out the precise reason he was such a screw up, and fix it.

 

“You disobeyed direct orders in a combat scenario, resulting in the loss of your entire team.  That’s five bodies, plus yours, all on you.”

 

Jesse clenched his jaw, and fought down the knee jerk urge to argue, to lay blame elsewhere.

 

_ Not my fault,  _ except it was, and the desperate need to protect himself from guilt wasn’t necessary any more.  This wasn’t Deadlock.  Not every mistake he made was met with fists in his face, a knife to his throat, broken bones.

 

Or worse.

 

Bruised knees, an aching jaw, a bit of a limp that he worked to hide.  

 

Shame that didn’t wash away no matter how hard Jesse tried.  Still hadn’t, even months later.

 

Never would, maybe.  Jesse didn’t know.

 

“Yes, sir.  I’m sorry, sir.”

 

The words didn’t taste any better now than they had at first, but they came easier.  Reyes was a hard ass, but he cared about his men, about their safety, about their well being.  Jesse respected him.

 

Then Reyes shifted back further in his seat, knees falling wider, hips rocking forward.  One hand on his belt, absently, and he looked Jesse up and down again with something burning in his eyes.  At Jesse’s face, then at the floor between his feet.

 

People had looked at Jesse like that before.

 

It had been a while, but it wasn’t anything Jesse could forget.

 

“I think you know how this goes, cabrón.”

 

There was a note of finality in Reyes voice, and something rankled inside Jesse.  He felt his cheeks flush, and his gaze darted to the side, unable to make eye contact.  Not in embarrassment, but in quiet outrage. 

 

It felt like betrayal.  

 

He’d thought Reyes was better than this.

 

Now it made sense, Jesse being called into Reyes’ room so late, all the Watchpoint sleeping or on their way there, no prying eyes, no interruptions. 

 

Blackwatch wasn’t Deadlock, but maybe some things never changed, and Gabriel Reyes was the only thing standing between Jesse and a lifetime in a prison cell.

 

Jesse licked over his teeth and hesitated.

 

He could feel anger simmering just beneath his skin, lighting up his eyes, but Jesse swallowed it.  It made his throat tight, made his fists clench, the idea that Reyes was no better than the men who’d already spent years letting Jesse down.  But he’d done this before, he could do it again.

 

Could keep this up until he got a real chance to run, and then Jesse would be gone, and not even a Blackwatch operative would be able to find him.  Not after he’d learned all their tricks.

 

So Jesse went to his knees, slow, settling in close between Reyes’ feet.  He glanced up to meet Reyes’ gaze, resigned and expectant, popping his jaw.

 

Reyes was looking at him in horror.

 

…..

 

He only had himself to blame.

 

But Gabriel couldn’t help it, the way his eyes caught on Jesse now.  

 

When they were training, his shirt riding up to show the tan skin of his abdomen, sweat slick, muscles only just starting to define like they should.  In the showers, stealing glances through the spray, the jagged scar under Jesse’s shoulder blade making something unpleasant clench in Gabriel’s chest.  In the mess hall, where he no longer shoveled food in his face like it might disappear, but spent most of his time smirking, teasing, shit talking.

 

Pointing that cocksure grin at people it was wasted on, people who didn’t appreciate it.

 

Which was everyone but Gabriel.  

 

And probably Rodriguez, the little demolitions tech they’d recruited out of Overwatch not long after Jesse showed up, who looked at him like he’d hung the fucking moon in the sky and never missed a chance to spar.  Gabriel had seen the way Rodriguez sparred with everyone else.  Vicious, the way most guys his size were in a fight.  Making up for their lack of reach and mass with pure hostility.  Merciless, never missing an opportunity to make it hurt, and Gabriel could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen him lose a fight to another recruit besides McCree.

 

Yet he always seemed to end up on his back underneath Jesse, flushed and pleased in defeat, arching in a way that was wholly unnecessary.  

 

Gabriel didn’t pair them together for training missions. Or anything else, for that matter.

 

Jesse didn’t notice.  Of course he didn’t notice.

 

Didn’t notice Gabriel watching him during simulations, the way everything around him seemed to go still just before he landed the perfect shot.  Didn’t notice Gabriel trying not to stare when he pulled his tank top up in the gym, wiping the sweat off his face with the bottom of it, stretching in a way that made Gabriel’s mouth go dry.

 

Or Gabriel thought he hadn’t noticed, anyway, but he must have shown his hand.  In hindsight, Gabriel hadn’t exactly been subtle.

 

Spending extra time training him, scolding him, perfecting his form and technique and strategy.  Calling him out first when he screwed up, because Gabriel knew he could do better.

 

_ Your block is low, your stance is wrong, your footwork’s sloppy. _

 

Every other word out of his mouth.

 

Jesse, Jesse, Jesse.

 

So he only had himself to blame, his wandering eyes and stupid fucking affection, when Jesse read between the lines as best he could.

 

He’d brought Jesse aside to bitch him out privately for being careless.  To pull him off training exercises for two weeks, as punishment.

 

Then Jesse had looked at Gabriel, hurt, sullen.  Like a dog whose owner had never struck them, reeling from a surprise kick, disbelieving.  

 

Like he was some kind of traitor.

 

He’d gone to his knees, jaw working unhappily, something dark but accepting in his eyes.  Only then did Gabriel read his own body language.  His hand on his belt, his knees wide, leaning back in his chair like a king on his throne.  On someone else, it could have been domineering.  Could have been suggestive.

 

Could have told Jesse everything he needed to know without words.

 

Under the shock, the heart fluttering adrenaline of surprise, Gabriel was angry.

 

Because someone, somewhere, had instilled this in Jesse.  Twisted his survival instincts.  Beaten him down, through force or threats or manipulation, until he would rather kneel than face whatever consequences waited for him on the other side of disobedience.  

 

Jesse McCree was a force of nature.  

 

Wild.  Devastating.  Unstoppable.

 

He did not belong on his knees, bent to someone else’s will.  

 

Not like this.

 

Gabriel chose his words carefully, not really liking the way any of them felt in his mouth right then.

 

“Fuck’s sake, Jesse.  Get on your feet, that’s not what I meant.”  

 

Jesse already had pink in his cheeks, and he flushed even brighter as he realized just how badly he’d misread the situation.  He stood up, falling into a sloppy parade rest, feet squared and hands behind his back but eyes on the ground.  Unwilling to meet Gabriel’s stare, shame making him restless.  

 

Ready to bolt at the first opportunity.

 

“Jesse.”  His eyes flicked up, then back down for a moment, before finding Gabriel’s and holding steady.  There were a lot of things rushing through Gabe’s head, and he tried to sift through them to find what he really wanted to say.

 

_ What kind of man do you think I am?   _

 

_ Who did this to you? _

 

What came out instead, was-

 

“Somebody pull that shit with you here?  Pull rank on you for some bullshit like that?”  Gabriel didn’t sound like himself.  Not the way he sounded when he spoke to his recruits, anyway.

 

Dangerous.

 

A voice someone heard before the click of a hammer.  Before the too-loud crash of a gunshot.

 

Before they didn’t hear anything at all, ever again.

 

Jesse paused, and shook his head, brows furrowed.

 

“No, sir.  It’s…  I mean, not…  Not since I signed on with Blackwatch.”  Gabriel sucked at his teeth, something unwinding in him, settling, stilling.

 

He hadn’t realized just how close to edge of violence he’d been until he eased back from it all at once.  Gabriel nodded, running a hand up to slide off his beanie and scratch through his short, dark curls.

 

“Alright.  Alright.”  He took a deep breath, sighing heavily, and tried to keep his gaze clear.  Didn’t want any pity creeping in, because neither one of them had any use for it.  

 

Anger, sure.  Vengeance, certainly.  Retribution, revenge.

 

Justice.

 

But pity was useless, and Gabriel tucked away the need he had to take Jesse in his arms and keep him safe, down where it couldn’t fuck things up for him.

 

“You’re off training exercises for two weeks, and you’re pulling double PT.  I want your head squared the fuck away when you get back with the team.  None of this cowboy, big dick, hero bullshit.  You do the job with your team, and you all come back, or you don’t do the job at all.  Blackwatch does the dirty work sometimes, but that doesn’t mean we’re expendable.  You understand?”  Jesse nodded, and Gabriel lifted a hand to his ear, expectant.

 

“Yes, sir.  I understand, sir.”

 

“Good.  Now hit the fucking showers, you stink like a motherfucker.”  Jesse turned, fleeing more than leaving, everything in him reeking of escape. Gabriel called out to him, just as he reached the door.   “Jesse.”  He looked over his shoulder, questioning.  “Someone ever tries some shit like that with you, you let me know, alright?”  Jesse made a face then, something vaguely derisive.

 

“What, you gonna write ‘em a bad eval?”  Jesse sneered, just barely, something he was struggling to keep off his face.  “Stick ‘em on double PT?”

 

Men like that, who would put Jesse on his knees against his will?

 

Those were the kind of soldiers that ran into bad luck on Gabriel’s wetwork missions.  Stumbled into a stray bullet, mismanaged some ordnance, had unfortunate weapon malfunctions.  Tragic but unavoidable losses, or so his mission reports claimed.

 

And Gabriel, he didn’t lose any sleep over them.  His mother, his sisters, they’d lost enough rest because of worthless men who thought they owned the world, and everyone in it.  

 

So no, Gabriel wouldn’t write them a bad evaluation, or have them running extra miles. 

 

He’d put them in the fucking ground.  Dirtnaps all around, first chance he got.  But he didn’t want anything sitting on Jesse’s conscience, so he leveled a heavy stare at him.  A look even Jesse McCree couldn’t help but wilt under, flinching back as Gabriel pointed at him.

 

“You fucking tell me.  You got that?”

 

Jesse nodded, mumbled out a ‘yes, sir’, and retreated out the door.

 

Gabriel rocked back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face and trying to get his shit together.

 

Tried to steady his breathing, and calm the seething voice in his head that was already working up an excuse to head back to Deadlock Gorge and finish mopping up the stragglers they’d left behind.  His trigger finger itched, and Gabriel reached for a knife he didn’t have on his belt, eager to slide it home between the ribs of someone who wasn’t there.  Someone faceless, someone nameless.

 

Someone who’d thought they had a right to own Jesse McCree, when they fucking didn’t, because he couldn’t be owned.  Not unless he wanted to be.

 

And if Jesse belonged to anyone, it was Gabriel goddamned Reyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> //shoves this at you and flees//
> 
> Comments, though. Do the thing.


End file.
